


you? you don't have the guts to be like me (don't make me laugh)

by oncewewerezombies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Alternian Empire, Alternian Revolution, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Casual Relationship, Dominance, Exhibitionism, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Forced Voyeurism, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Nook Eating (Homestuck), Nook Fingering (Homestuck), Office Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Voyeurism, competence is sexy actually, exposing people to kink scenes without explicit consent, it's that porn trope, you know that porn trope where someone is under a desk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 16:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19890607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: Karkat Vantas, Threshcutioner in Chief of Her Imperial Complacence's Empire, takes a work conference call.





	you? you don't have the guts to be like me (don't make me laugh)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elendraug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elendraug/gifts), [Fox_Salz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_Salz/gifts).



After everything, all the fighting and rebelling and skulking in corners and all that _festering hoofbeastshit_ you'd had to suffer through for sweeps, your clade had helped catapult Feferi into the golden throne of the Alternian Empire. Great. Good. Fucking excellent, you're foaming at the facegash in ecstasies over the whole fucking affair. 

You have to admit it's probably better than being culled, a smear of mutant crimson on the asphalt and splattered on a drone's fork. Still. You reserve the right to bitch as much and as freely about all the fucking insanity you have to put up with as one of the leading lights of the new government - especially considering the utter banality of most of it. It's just all so fucking petty and dull. Admiral blah di blah has a fancier ship than me. I need a new helmsman, I crushed the pan of the last one (oh, you'd had some _fucking things_ to say about that, most of them screamed in increasing decibels until the violet-blooded asshole was cowering from you) (ok, maybe there are a _few_ benefits to being who you are). 

Having to give almost daily reports over vid-link is not a benefit.

Giving repetitive reports to the same po-faced bunch of wastechute sphincter-clenched bulgesores that you know are just waiting for you or Feferi to put a walking nub wrong for them to pounce on is always a bit of a nervewracking task. Maybe she's the only fuchsia - but that's only for the moment. You're always very glad of Gl'bgolyb when you think of just how uneasily Feferi is sitting on top of her throne, glamour heels resting on the corpsehusk of her predecessor, Her Imperious Condescension. They want you dead so very fucking badly, and you love to rub it in their faces how alive you are and how they're never going to get their salty fucking fronds anywhere near you. And if they try? You'll chop them off, as they well fucking know. 

Honestly the assassination attempts so far had just been _poor_. You would have thought that they'd have all lived long enough to come up with a scheme you wouldn't actually see coming. Stupidity to your enemies, et fucking cetera.

You shift a little in your seat, and look the current leading asswipe and strain on your beneficent patience straight in the face as you shuffle the papers in front of you ostentatiously. He's got a face on him like the slopwave on a waste-container, and you smirk. Just a little. Who the fuck even uses paper anymore? It's just an anachronistic affectation; fitting for a crew of befinned assholes who have their heads firmly wedged into the sand and detritus of the Empire's _glorious fucking past_. You do what you have to do to get your point across, to make them take you seriously in the glowing moonlight of Her Imperial Complacence's beautiful new night.

A firm lick of Equius' tongue across the softness of your nook makes your breath catch in your throat for a moment as your gaze flicks down briefly, and you scowl harder down at your notes. Oh, had you forgotten to mention that little thing? Shame. Yeah. Your seat isn't exactly just the regulation comfortblock. 

Look. 

Your life is pretty fucking stressful, right? People want you dead, and for no real reason at all. Mutant, a disgrace to the Empire, a misbegotten stain in the incestuous slurry, what the fuck ever. That's meaningless and it's always _been_ meaningless. It's not like you're bad at your job or something. You're currently enjoying giving them an actual reason to want you dead, because they know that you've got someone's tongue root-deep in your nook and you're still racing circles around them, politically and courtier-ly. Is that a word? It's a word of right fucking now. Language is a sham anyway.

You're getting off track. The point is, you're currently sitting on Equius Zahhak's face and his mouth is pressed hard up against your nook as you leak crimson red fluids all over his fucking noble and aristocratic visage, your legs up over his shoulders where he's kneeling in front of you and under your administrativeplane. _God_ , who knew Equius 'I have a pole wedged up my wastechute and it's the approximate size and shape of infinity' Zahhak even knew how to lick nook, let alone so _fucking_ well. The answer is you. You know. You know because _inane bullshit clown gods only know why_ , somehow you'd wound up being the only assholes who didn't have partners for flush pail collection at drone season time and then somehow. Somehow. You just hadn't stopped doing it.

Do you pity him, for real? You don't know. You hate him at least a little bit, like how could you not, the guy is a hate _magnet_. But...you definitely know that's not the only thing you feel about him. Nepeta just laughs at you if you say something. You hate her and her somehow ridiculously competent bad-ass self that she'd grown up to be as well. Just not in a pail-worthy way. You'd all grown as people, you guess, and Equius might still come out with the most appallingly hemocastist _bullshit_ , but now you have ways he can make it up to you. Like what he's doing now with his tongue, oh sweet _fucking_ festering cloaca of the Imperial Carbuncle. Fuck. _Fuck_.

You keep your voice admirably steady as you tear strips of metaphorical skin off the waste of space who managed to kill a whole battalion of cavalreapers without achieving the objective she'd been set - politics and trollmanity aside, that's just fucking sloppy and this asshole should know it. Equius' fingers flex against your thighs, and you can feel him rooting and nuzzling against your nook like he can't get enough of your filthy sexual fluids. He's swallowing what you're leaking out, you can _feel_ it. What an utter fucking disgrace of a fuck up he is. God. You hope he doesn't stop.

You know he won't. Once Zahhak settles to a job, he fucking finishes it or else. It's something you used to advantage more than once when you were the treacherous rebels opposing the rightful Empress. When you give Equius Zahhak a mission, it gets fucking completed or else. And he usually apologises afterwards for missing some tiny bit _that literally no one ever_ would have noticed or given a shit about. Except for him. God, you know he only does it so people can point out what a good job he did in the first place. He's so ridiculously over-competent in far too many fucking areas to have such a crippling case of self-pity.

Rocking against his face as subtly as you can manage while your bulge tries to knot with the hems of your uniform shirt, you keep talking and maintaining the ruse you're all upholding here. That you're not getting eaten out while on a call with some of the more powerful seadwellers of the Empire, and you are definitely not doing it to make sure they realise that someone, possibly someone they know, is doing it to fuck with them. Fuck, you love the shit that Equius comes up with sometimes.

It's always with this very diffident way, like he doesn't really fucking want it. Whatever it is that he's proposing. You have more than a few sextoys in your respiteblock that hadn't known even existed as a possibility. Having him under your desk and licking your nook had been all his idea. He likes the idea of being found out, even though the chance is very small. Your crew, for fuck know's what only reason, actually _like_ you and would take just about any secret you had to their deaths. That your serving Enginihilator in chief is something like your matesprit, and a really huge fucking pervert, is something that they've enjoyed keeping under wraps just as much as you've enjoyed...enjoying it.

That was a stupid ass sentence, but you're too busy luxuriating in both the sensation of Equius' tongue up your nook and the pinched catfish look that the admirals across the array of screens are increasingly sporting. His fingers are kneading at your thighs like doing that could make the geneslime come out faster, like you're some kinda fucking pump. A mechanism. What a fucking nooklick. Ohhh fuckkk that's so good, that's so fucking good.

Even while you're getting an increasingly eager nookjob under the table, you keep your tone precise and snappy, firing questions left and right and watching with glee as they land. It's just about as arousing as the cool tongue wedged deep into the sopping heat of your nook. You drop your hand briefly below the level of the table and you watch four pairs of eyes follow it, as you casually untangle your bulge from your dress shirt and wipe the lingering red drops off in Equius' hair. His fingers clench tighter, digging into the muscle of your thighs and you exhale softly before continuing on with your work. You're a fucking _professional_.

As always, you keep it together all the way up to almost the end. You're doing your usual snappish sign off, when not only is there a tongue in your nook, there's two fingers. You slam a hand down on your desk and fight for composure as his fingers curl in your nook, rubbing against that spot inside that makes your toes curl every time while his tongue moves on to lick at the pleasurenode at the base of your bulgesheath; oh that squeakbeastfuck asshole. _Bastard fucking highblood smarmy son of a fuck_. 

"Alright there, Vvvantas," one of the admirals drawled, butchering your hatchsign like they were hatched to do. Smug finflicking fuckmongers. God, you hate them all and so fucking platonically. You wouldn't fuck them with a borrowed bulge. "Not too distracted?"

"Weren't you just fucking leaving, or you're that thirsty to hear more of my dulcet tones, Admiral Clawmight?" you snarl, feeling your thigh shake under the desk as Equius keeps trying to make you lose it and cum all over his face while you're still in conference. _Fuck_ , he's too good at this. Fuck him and his outstanding drive for perfection in everything he fucking does. Couldn't he just settle for being bad at something for once? "I know I have more fucking work to do that doesn't involve _berating_ you salty fucks into doing your jobs properly for once."

"Point taken, Threshcutioner Commander," Clawmight snips back at you, and ostentatiously does a wide look across the screen. As though they're taking in the other videoscreens on their display in one lingering, panoramic interrogatory glance. They're one of the ones who are actually decent at managing their division and don't have a fatality factor that's off the charts, so you're going to give them a little slack. But your patience only has so much slack in it to give. "Wwwe are done, aren't wwwe?" 

A chorus of muttered agreement comes from your screens, and you clench your fist so hard your claws dig wounds into your palm as Equius fucks you with his fingers. You can feel the need to spill quivering at your seedflap, hot tight clenching aching down between your hips. Oh, you're going to _murder_ him once everyone signs off. There's a few more diplomatic pleasantries and finally, _fucking finally_ , all the vid-links across your display go gray and blank. One by one by one as the fuckers sign off, and go to actually do some work for the fucking Empire.

Once the last one has gone blank (it's Clawmight of course, giving you a sardonic look, fuck you wish you could strangle them through the screen), you push the desk back with a grinding screech and look down at the asshole lingering between your thighs. Your nook _clenches_ at the sight that greets you; Equius has crimson smeared across his face and his hair from your bulge dripping on him. He looks so good like that, smeared in your disgustingly mutant colour, noble blue-tinted eyes peering up at you from a mask of scarlet slurry.

Your nook clenches and gushes a little, and you snarl. The corner of his mouth twitches up just a little, before he leans forward again and seals his mouth against your nook. That - that feculent bulgesore -

"Fuck!" Your head snaps back, slamming against the support of your chair as your whole body shakes while he really goes to fucking town on your nook. Your bulge lashes excitedly across his face, cheek, nose, forehead, smearing his craggy face with even more genematerial. He's - shit _fuck_ \- "Oh _fuck_ , fuck, FUCK," you keen as you grab at his hair to haul him in close and make him _fucking stay there_ , squirming and writhing in your seat as he sucks and laps, eagerly devouring every drop that he can scrape into his waiting mouth.

It's so fucking filthy - he's so - he's so fucking good at this you hate him, you hate him so much, you pity him, you -

You come all over his face in a decadent wash, painting him from cheekbones to shoulders. Shuddering, you pull on his hair again, grinding down against his mouth to really get the last few drops out. Fuck. He really drained you this time.

"You're an abomination and a disgrace to your bloodcaste," you grunt, and finally let go of his long, silky hair. He just looks up at you, smugly. He doesn't have an expression to speak of, but you can _feel_ the smugness radiating off him. Asshole. "Fuck..."

"Your language is execrable as always," Equius purrs, and you know that he's got a wiggly from the way he carefully adjusts the way he's kneeling between your feet. Fuck him. You're not helping him with it. "May I..."

"Use your words, you know how this works," you say, feeling floaty in the aftermath of orgasm but not willing to let him slide on any fucking thing. Even if he did a good job. Fucking brilliant job of both eating your nook and making every single one of those brineblooded fucks squirm to know that even when you were being eaten out, you were still better at your job than they could possibly hope to be at theirs. 

"May I take care of myself, Vantas?"

"Take care of yourself, _how_ , bulgemunch?" you goad, just to see his eyes narrow. You know he gets off on it, so you yank on his hair to make sure he's paying attention. Fuck, you don't feel like moving at all. You're gonna make him carry you to the ablutionblock once you're both done. Shit, you're sticky all the way down to your knees.

"Masturbation," is what he decides to come out with, at the end of his decision making process and you snort. Fuck. What a fucking pretentious asshole. 

"Yeah, c'mon, let's see it. I wanna see how eating my mutant nook got you hot under the collar, Enginihilator," you say and he turns blue across the tops of his ears. After all that, that's what makes him fucking blush. This _fucking guy_ , you don't get him. He's twisted up in more knots than a squid orgy. "Unzip your pants and pull out that blue fucktentacle."

"You have such a disgusting way of putting things," he mutters and you pull on his hair in reproof, making him moan. Still, he does what he's told. He always does what he's told, it's both his one redeeming feature and something that drives you absolutely fucking batshit. You gaze down blearily as he leans his head against your knee, one hand stroking and pulling gently at his bulge as he sweats and pants. 

"You love it." You rub your thumb into the base of his intact horn, digging the side of your claw into the bed to make him shudder. "You love it when I tell you what a fucking disgrace you are, I've never met anyone as eager to eat my nook as you. Look at how much slurry you made me waste, it didn't even get anywhere near a bucket." His breath is coming faster and harder, and he groans, a deep and broken sound as you scratch your claws against his skull and run your fingers through the hair that's not coated in slurry. "But I suppose I had a bucket, huh? It's you, you're the bucket for a fucking mutant, Equius and you _asked for it_ -"

He comes with a snarl, turning his face into your thigh at the last moment as he orgasms, shuddering all over. Spilling blue all over the carpet underneath your administrativeplane over the top of whatever red managed to get there, instead of in or on Equius. Boy, the janiterrorists are going to fucking hate you tonight. You'd probably better do something like approve an extra entertainment ration or something. Yeah. 

"Feel better?" you say cautiously once his breathing steadies and he's not pressing his face quite so hard against the muscles in your upper leg. You always wonder if you've gone too far, but so far...so far it's been ok.

"Mmm." He looks up, and you push your chair back further so he can climb out from underneath your desk. Stretch. "Except for the ache in my back from being under there for an hour."

"You asked for it," you remind him, and allow yourself a little smugness. Everyone's else gotten to exercise their smuggery gland tonight, you're just joining the crowd like some sort of self-serving zeitgeist-joining asshole. "You can exercise the ache out by carrying me to the ablutionblock."

"Can I really," he muses dangerously and you smirk, before kicking him in the thigh. You almost bruise your fucking walknub, but you ignore that. He's made of improbably dense muscle but you're not going to go around being easy on him. This isn't that sort of thing. You refuse to follow that thought further, to think about what kind of thing it actually is. Neither of you are actually ready for that. Not yet.

"You sure fucking can, Enginihilator, and that's an order. Pull your pants up and pretend you're not a fucking reprehensible example for the crew, why don't you." He laughs in the back of his throat, in a way that not everyone would recognise as a laugh as he zips his pants up and wipes his sleeve over his face. It's more like a cough, but you know what it is. It makes your pusher flutter, and you ignore that just as much as you've been ignoring the question of what you are to each other. Bending down, he picks you up, you still being sans pants and making no effort to get them from where you kicked them, holding you across his chest with one arm under your knees and the other behind your back. "You know that didn't help at all, right. You've got slurry in your fucking hair."

"It's a good thing we're going to the ablutionblock then, isn't it, Commander Vantas." 

He's making fun of you. That's allowable, and means he's feeling ok with everything so you just snort and roll your eyes expressively as you settle in against his chest. Fuck him for being such a fucking enormous tool. Him being so strong and big and just generally fucking coldblooded does come in handy every so often.

"You're such an asshole, I don't know why I put up with your insubordination," you mutter waspishly, and reach up to give his hair a tug. His whole chest reverberates with a near silent chuckle, and you smile a bit to yourself. Carefully making sure he can't see it. 

One of these cycles, you're both going to have to have an actual serious talk about shit, rather than getting distracted with orgasms. Not tonight though. Just some time. Tonight you're going to make him wash you and look after you, while you do the same to him but more subtly because he gets very fucking uptight about the most stupid shit when he thinks you're showing too much care for him, considering your 'positions'. Whatever. He's such a moron for being so fucking smart, it makes you sick.

Things are complicated and maybe there's a few things you're going to have to look at changing, but right now you're just going to concentrate on getting your hide scrubbed to within an inch of its life by a big blue festering chutesphincter who's better with his mouth than he has any right to be. And then maybe you'll go do some paperwork. Considering the amount of shit you do for the Empire, you think you're allowed to give yourself a few little luxuries, and this is the most important one.


End file.
